


Eremophobia

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Extreme Softness (relative to canon), M/M, Mild Horror (relative to canon), spoilers MAG 120
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 17:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16123430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: eremophobia (noun)er·e·mo·pho·bia | \ ˌer-ə-mō-ˈfō-bē-ə[Greek ἐρῆμος (erêmos, “lonely, solitary”) + phobia]1. fear of solitude or deserted places2. morbid dread of being aloneThe Institute is changing.





	Eremophobia

**Author's Note:**

> One of several post-120 ideas I’ve been batting about, but this was the simplest to work through, so here we are. Please note that I do not condone anything bad ever happening to Martin Blackwood. Edited 09/30 for spleling.

 

The Institute is changing. Not tangibly, nothing Martin could point to and say  _ there, different _ , but he feels it, like sand shifting beneath his feet. It’s small things at first. The building seems emptier, day to day, although he hasn’t heard of anyone leaving. Footsteps echo louder than they used to, like every space is larger and emptier somehow. He goes entire days at work without running into anyone else. There are times he’s convinced he’s the only person left in the Institute, only to be startled by the sound of a door closing or a throat clearing.

 

He could put it down to what’s happened, the cleared out desk that used to be Tim’s, Jon’s empty office. The fact that Melanie won’t speak to him, and Basira seems barricaded inside her own head. But he knows that’s not it. 

 

Martin’s not an idiot, whatever people might think. He’s been going through  _ those  _ statements - the written versions, not the recordings. He’s not sure he could handle listening to Jon’s voice, not with how things are. But he’s been reading them, learning from them, and he’s seen the pattern. Naomi Herne, Carter Chilcott, Barnabas Bennett - all of them isolated. Lost and trapped alone. The Lukas family always hovering around the edges of that horror, and now Peter Lukas is at the Institute, and the high-shelved passages of the Archives are growing longer while the spaces between them are shadowed and echoing. 

 

Martin sees it, but he has no idea what to do about it. He tries to talk to Basira, but she says it’s probably just his imagination and disappears back into the book she’s reading. Melanie still won’t be in a room with him for more than a few seconds, and the one time he approaches her she gives him a look of such anger that his resolve crumbles. He wishes he could tell Jon. Visits, as much as he can, sitting in the sterile hospital room, but can’t bring himself to talk about any of it out loud. Instead he talks cheerfully about things that don’t matter, as if Jon was a coma patient rather than - whatever it is that he counts as right now. It doesn’t make Martin feel any less alone, but he does it anyway, because that’s what you do.

 

His dreams begin to be haunted by nothing at all. He is always walking, wandering through empty streets or deserted halls or silent woodland. There is nothing to fear. Nothing is chasing him, or threatening him, nothing is wrong except that he’s alone. There is nothing to fear, except the knowledge that there is nothing, the utter certainty that there will never be anything or anyone again. Some nights he wakes in the dark silence, convinced that the dream was real and he’s been trapped in a empty world, like Barnabas Bennett. Those nights he fumbles his bare feet into shoes and pulls a coat on over his pajamas. Almost runs to the 24 hour cafe down the road and buys a styrofoam cup of weak tea, just to see the bored girl behind the counter. Those nights he sits under the flickering fluorescent lights while his tea goes cold in front of him, breathing carefully and waiting for the horror to dissipate. It never entirely does, but he gets used to it.

 

He throws himself into the work as a distraction. He records the statements, and tries to ignore the pitiful echo of his voice in the empty Archives. He even starts mapping out the indexing system that Jon had always talked about implementing. He has no idea if he’s doing it right - in fact he almost certainly isn’t - but it’s something to do and it distracts him from the deep swell of loneliness that sometimes threatens to overwhelm him. It’s something. 

 

Six weeks after the wax museum, Martin is filing some case folders when a yellow door that definitely wasn’t there before opens in the wall across from him, and Jon stumbles through. He is wearing a flimsy hospital gown, his breathing rapid and shallow. His eyes dart wildly around, as if not recognizing where he is. For a second Martin doesn’t believe what he’s seeing.

 

“Jon?” he says finally, hesitantly. Jon’s head turns towards him. Behind Jon, the door shuts itself out of existence, faint laughter in its wake. 

 

“Martin?” Jon’s voice is rusty and weak. “Are we in the Archives?”

 

“I - yes,” says Martin. “How - what happened? Are you - how are you here?”

 

“I, umm, I’m not sure, entirely. There was a...a door. I didn’t want to go through it, but in the end it was the only place I had left to go.” He trails off, scrubs a hand over his face. “I - I think I need to sit down for a minute. Would you - I could really use a cup of tea?”

 

His voice is plaintive, and Martin laughs breathlessly at the wonderful banality of it. Then Jon sways on his feet and Martin leaps forward, grasping one arm to offer support and placing his other hand on Jon’s back to guide him. Part of him is shocked at his own boldness, but Jon doesn’t seem to mind, just leans drunkenly against Martin. His skin is fever warm, and Martin can feel the bones of his back, too prominent. He collapses in the chair Martin leads him to, eyes closed and brow furrowed painfully.

 

“Tea, right,” Martin says. “Wait here - I’ll be right back.”

 

Jon nods slowly.

 

“Thank you, Martin,” he rasps. “It’s - good to see you.”

 

Martin goes to make tea in the Archives' little kitchenette, his heart and mind both racing. He has no idea how Jon is here, but he  _ is _ , and that means everything will be all right. He’ll know what to do. The kettle takes approximately a million years to boil, and then Martin puts together the tea with shaky hands - not the way Jon usually takes his tea, with just a splash of milk, but the way Jon likes it when he’s feeling under the weather, with two heaping spoons of sugar and so much milk it’s almost white. He thinks this is definitely a sugary tea situation.

 

He’s only gone a few minutes, but when he gets back he sees Peter Lukas standing over Jon. Martin’s stomach drops into his shoes.

 

“- wonderful to have our Archivist back,” Peter’s saying, then he notices Martin. “Oh, Martin - you’ve brought the tea, I see. I was just telling Jon how glad we are to have him back. I got a call from the hospital not five minutes ago to say they’d lost their patient, and what do you know, he turns up here! Remarkable!”

 

He reaches out a hand for the mug of tea, and Martin reluctantly hands it to him. Peter smiles encouragingly then turns back to Jon.

 

“Let’s go and have a little chat in my office. Well, Elias’ office last you were here, but you’ll see I haven’t changed much.”

 

Jon nods wearily and gets to his feet. Peter presses the tea into his trembling hands and propels him out of the Archives with a hand on his shoulder, talking cheerfully all the while. Jon gives Martin a small, pained smile as he passes, and then he’s gone. 

 

Things don’t get better, with Jon back. He’s  _ there _ , but not really, shut up in his office most of the time with boxes of files and his tape recorder. When he does emerge he is distant, intent on whatever old case has caught his attention. Half the time Martin gets requests for case follow ups on post-it notes, the other half Jon hovers uneasily by Martin’s desk to outline what he needs, before retreating to his office. Occasionally he lingers silently for a handful of seconds, brow furrowed as if he’s considering saying something, but it never comes. Even more occasionally, Martin glimpses Jon  _ looking _ at him from across the room or behind a door, his expression almost apologetic. As soon as Martin catches his eye he suddenly becomes very interested in the nearest bookshelf or door frame, as if that’s what he’d actually been looking at all along. He’s not much better as an actor than he is as a spy.

 

Martin tries not to take it personally. Jon’s been through a lot. But still he can’t help feeling rejected. After everything they’ve been through, after Sasha and Tim, he thought maybe he deserved a little more. An explanation, at least, of how Jon made it back. One  _ bloody  _ conversation, maybe. He knows - suspects - that Jon’s distance is at least in part due to Peter Lukas’ influence. It would make sense, to keep the Archivist isolated, alone. He knows that, but there’s also a part of him, a small, fearful part he wishes wasn’t there, that thinks it’s because of him. Because Jon listens to all the tapes, doesn’t he? Jon knows - well, he  _ knows _ , if he didn’t before. Martin knows Jon is too kind a person to ever be cruel about it, but the thought of his pity  _ (those sorrowful glances from across the room) _ is more than Martin can stand. He needs to know, at least, if it’s just him getting this treatment.

 

“Have you noticed Jon sort of...watching you?” he asks Basira.

 

“Yeah,” she says matter-of-factly, as if it’s not a big deal. “A couple of times.”

 

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

 

“It’s a bit weird,” she says, “But what isn’t around here? I just don’t think about it.”

 

Martin desperately wants to ask if she’s noticed how strange things have been lately, how everything seems stretched out and empty. To ask if she’s been feeling as cold and lonely as he has, tell her his suspicions about Peter Lukas, insist they need to work together to tackle this. But even as he opens his mouth a sensation rolls over him like thick fog, freezing his tongue and muffling his ears. Basira suddenly seems very far away, like he’s looking at her through the wrong end of a telescope. He knows, with grim certainty, that she wouldn’t care about what he has to say anyway, would dismiss him and turn her back without a word. She’d probably stop talking to him like Melanie has, and then he’d be entirely alone.

 

“Everything all right?” Basira asks, her voice faint through the haze that surrounds him. 

 

“Fine,” Martin says with some effort, and goes back to his desk. Sits there for a long time until he feels normal again, and understands that he’s cut off. They probably all are, each of them desperate to connect, to ask for help, but entirely unable to do so. All of them isolated in each other’s company. 

 

The dreams get worse. Whereas before the lonely places he walked were unnamed and unfamiliar, now he dreams about his flat, his local pub, the Archives, all empty and echoing. It becomes difficult to know when he’s actually woken up, until the sound of a passing car or barking dog startles him. One night he dreams an entire day alone, wandering the vacant streets through a thick, chilling mist. Dreams of going back to his empty flat. Dreams of falling asleep. Wakes with cold condensation clinging to his skin and silence ringing in his ears. He lies there for long minutes, waiting for some noise outside, but nothing comes. He tries to remember the day before, the  _ real _ day, but he can’t get a firm hold of it, and with a numb, mounting dread he realizes he doesn’t know which was real. 

 

There is, he thinks dazedly, something he does when this happens. In a fog of muted terror he slips on his shoes and coat and walks outside, down the deserted street to the fluorescent beacon of the cafe. The cafe is there, but it’s empty, no patrons at the formica tables, nobody behind the counter. Martin walks slowly inside, blinking in the cold brightness of the overhead lights, the silence swelling to a buzzing crescendo, the horror of utter absence overtaking him. He is alone, and he is afraid. There is nobody here, and there will never be anybody again, and he will always, always,  _ always _ be alone… 

 

There is an implosive rush of air ending in a sharp pop, and the girl behind the counter is asking him what he wants in a mildly annoyed tone that suggests he’s been standing there for some time. He shakily orders tea, and sits at the corner table, his breath shuddering in a way that threatens to turn into hysteria. He swallows it down, clenches his hands into fists and digs those into the meat of his thighs until the panic recedes. It takes a long time.

 

He’s getting lost, he knows it, and he has no idea how to make it stop. If it happens again he doesn’t know if he’ll come back. He doesn’t know if it’s happening to any of the others, but he has to warn them. Except the last time he tried to talk to Basira about it, he couldn’t get the words out, and he doesn’t think it will get any better. There’s only one chance left, and he can’t risk being alone again. He stays in the cafe until the early rush starts, bin men and bus drivers on their way to work. Then he heads for the Tube station.

 

“I need to make a statement,” he says in a rush. Jon looks up, flustered, as Martin throws open the door to his office and walks in.

 

“Martin? What are you doing here this early? And why on earth are you wearing pajamas?”

 

“I need to make a statement, and I need you to  _ make _ me.” He can feel the gray haze coming across his vision, Jon’s startled voice already far away. Martin grits his teeth against the wave of hopelessness that rises up over him. “ _ Now _ , before I  _ can’t _ .”

 

The fear closes his throat, strangling his words, and Martin groans in despair as the endless, soundless blanket of _alone_ _alone alone_ settles around him, _nobody cares, nobody’s there, nobody nobody no -_

 

A tape recorder clicks.

 

“ -ment of Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at - oh forget it.  _ Martin, _ ” Jon’s voice cuts through the silence like a whip,  _ “Tell me what’s happening.” _

 

“It’s Peter Lukas,” Martin hears himself say, and he could cry with the relief of it. “He’s doing something, to the Institute. It’s been so empty here, since he turned up, like nobody’s around at all. I thought that when you came back it would stop, but it didn’t, it got worse. I could see it was affecting everyone, I mean Melanie wasn’t talking to me anyway, but Basira got really distant, and you wouldn’t talk to anyone, you were just  _ watching _ us. It was like you weren’t really here at all. I started dreaming about being alone, these really vivid dreams that felt  _ real _ , and I couldn’t even  _ say _ anything about it.  When I tried it was like I was getting sort of...sucked away from everything. Then last night I woke up and I was alone, really alone, the entire world was  _ empty _ and I walked down the road and knew I was going to be alone forever, I would never again see or speak to anyone. It - stopped, after a while. Everyone came back. Or I came back, I suppose. But I know it’s going to happen again, and next time I won’t come back.”

 

“I’ve been so lonely,” he continues, even though a small part of him thinks he probably shouldn’t. A larger part of him thinks it’s a good idea to get it all out there, while the Archivist is listening so politely, it’s a nice feeling to tell someone everything. “I miss Sasha, and Tim, even though he was so  _ angry _ for a long time, still, he was my friend. I - I miss you, as well? I know, I know, you’re my boss, we’re not friends, but I can’t help it. We all went through so much to stop the Circus, and Tim  _ died _ , and you - I don’t even know what happened to you, or how you made it back. I thought after all that, I don’t know, maybe things would be different. Maybe you’d trust me a bit more. And I’m sorry if I made things awkward, I knew Elias might use all that, but I needed to do it anyway, you know? You don’t have to feel sorry for me or anything. I’d like if we could just go back to the way things used to be, back before. I mean, maybe not exactly like before, because things haven’t been great since Jane Prentiss, and before that you were kind of a prat a lot of the time, but just - not like they have been. And that’s...it, I suppose.”

 

“Uh, statement ends?” Jon says, and the tape recorder clicks off. Martin takes a few deep breaths. He feels, actually, a little better. Jon is watching him with a stricken expression. 

 

“God, Martin,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s all right,” Martin says reflexively. It’s not really all right, he’s probably going to be devoured by an evil power, but he can’t help himself.

 

“I thought,” Jon says. “I thought it would be safer for you all, if I kept some distance. I didn’t want Peter Lukas to see how - how important you all are. I thought I could just keep an eye on you, make sure he didn’t harm any of you. Which he  _ did _ , right under my nose, and I never even  _ noticed. _ ”

 

“Well, I didn’t say anything.”

 

“That’s no excuse,” Jon growls, vitriol obviously meant for himself. “It was  _ stupid _ , and  _ arrogant _ . God, they were right about me.”

 

“So you haven’t, uh, haven’t been affected?”

 

“By the Lonely? No, not really. I’ve felt it, of course, but it’s difficult for other powers to get a foothold in the Institute. It takes a mind that’s - susceptible. Sensitive, to a particular fear.”

 

“Oh,” Martin wants to crawl under a rock. “So, just me, then?”

 

“I’ll speak to Melanie and Basira when they get in, but - yes, very likely.”

 

“Oh,” Martin says again. Jon must hear the humiliation in his voice, because he stands up suddenly and walks to the office door.

 

“Wait here,” he says. “I won’t be long, I promise.”

 

Martin waits, and true to his word Jon returns a few minutes later. He presents Martin with a mug of tea, which, when he takes a mouthful, is hot and sweet and milky. Martin feels a wobbly smile stretch his mouth.

 

“Thanks,” he says, and places the mug down on the desk. Jon hesitates for a moment, then pulls his chair around from the other side of the desk and sits down. Martin turns to face him, almost knee to knee.  

 

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Jon says again. “I’ve completely failed you.”

 

“No - you haven’t - ” 

 

“I have.” Jon cuts across his protests. “I’m responsible for your welfare - yours, and Basira’s and Melanie’s. I’ve already failed so many times, with Tim, and Sasha, and Daisy, and even after all that I almost - almost lost you too.”

 

“You were trying to protect us,” Martin says. “I - I understand. Although you really need to stop thinking that you can protect people by staying away from them. That hasn’t worked out terribly well in the past.”

 

Jon gives a laugh with barely a shred of humor in it, and shakes his head.

 

“You’re right,” he says. “New day, same stupid mistakes.”

 

“I’m, errh, I’m just glad you’re not - upset with me.” Martin regrets it almost as soon as he says it, but it’s out there now.

 

“Upset with you? What on earth for?”

 

“You know,” he says, “The thing with, uh, with Elias. What he said, about me. And. You. My...feelings, about you. I thought that was why you were avoiding me, because it was...awkward.”

 

Jon’s throat makes a noise Martin can’t quite describe, and his face goes red, the worm scars standing out starkly white. 

 

“Martin,” he says, voice slightly choked. “I - No. It’s not  _ awkward _ .”

 

“Sorry,” says Martin. He’s not exactly sure what he’s apologizing for, except Jon seems distressed, and it’s probably his fault. 

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for!” Jon almost snaps the sentence, then takes a deep breath. “Sorry, I just - You shouldn’t feel like you need to apologize all the time. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re - you’re  _ good _ , Martin. There are so few truly good people in the world, but you’re one of them, and I just don’t understand why you’d - ” 

 

He pauses. Leans forward in his chair and, shockingly, grasps both Martin’s wrists, curling his thin fingers around them. Martin forgets how to breathe.

 

“I’m...not a good person, Martin. I’m not even sure I’m a person anymore.”

 

“You saved the world,” Martin reminds him, and he huffs a soft laugh.

 

“I live here too, it’s hardly altruistic. The point is, I wouldn’t be good. For you. But when I heard that tape, I wanted - It was selfish. The further away from me you are, the safer you are. Look at what almost happened, just from being  _ here _ . I can’t drag you into this anymore than you already have been.”

 

Martin’s heart is hammering in his chest and he definitely isn’t getting enough oxygen. His head is in a haze, although a very different one from earlier. He hauls together every scrap of courage he has, leans across the gap, and kisses Jon. Jon makes a small surprised noise against his mouth and then kisses back, soft and careful. 

 

“I’m all the way in already,” Martin says when they draw apart. “And, you don’t get to make my decisions.” 

 

“I - All right,” Jon says quietly. He is still holding Martin’s wrists in his hands. 

 

“So,” says Martin, “What do we do now? To stop me, well, you know - dying. Or something.”

 

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that,” says Peter Lukas from the doorway. Martin starts like a cat and Jon turns, looking equal parts surprised and furious. 

 

“Sorry,” says Peter mildly, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

 

Jon releases Martin’s wrists and stands to face Peter, his expression livid. 

 

“How dare you,” he snarls. “How _dare_ _you_ attack him.”

 

“I did no such thing,” Peter raises his hands innocently. “You know about my family, Jon, and I did warn you there could be some, ah, bleed-through. I assumed you’d take steps to protect your staff. Especially anyone...vulnerable. Maybe I should have taken responsibility for that myself. We’re just lucky Martin here was quick thinking enough to get  _ himself  _ out of his predicament.”

 

“You - ” Jon begins, but thinks better of it, clamping his mouth shut. Peter Lukas gives him a broad, friendly smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

 

“Well, no harm done this time,” he says. “I’ll take more precautions, and I’m sure you’ll keep a better eye on your assistants in the future? In the meantime, I’d suggest Martin shouldn’t be on his own for a little while, just in case. But it seems you have that well in hand.”

 

He reaches past Jon and pats Martin on the shoulder amiably.

 

“Well done, Martin,” he says. “You continue to impress.”

 

Several seconds after Peter Lukas leaves, Martin realizes he’s holding his breath. He lets it out in a long sigh. Jon slowly and deliberately shuts the door to his office, and stands with his back to the wood, eyes closed. Carefully, Martin gets up and stands in front of him. Jon opens his eyes.  

 

“This is a bad idea,” he says wearily. “With Lukas here, things are...complicated. We could all be in danger.”

 

“We’re always in danger,” Martin tells him, pleased when that gets a smile out of Jon.

 

“I suppose we are,” he says, and reaches out to pull Martin towards him. Martin lets himself be folded against Jon’s thin frame, slides his own arms around Jon’s back as Jon’s nose bumps against his neck. He thinks he should probably be embarrassed at still being in pajamas with only a coat over, but all he feels is warm, and happy, and wanted. 

 

“I won’t leave you alone again,” Jon says into his ear, quiet and intense. “I promise.”

 

Martin’s not an idiot, and he’s not naive, whatever some people might think. He knows that’s not a promise anyone can make. Right now, though, he’s willing to believe it. He pulls Jon closer, and holds on.


End file.
